


Taking Liberties

by veronamay



Category: Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: Angst, M/M, Rejection, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-20
Updated: 2004-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz entertains impure thoughts.  Set somewhere between Camera Obscura and Henrietta Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Liberties

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a late Christmas present for kel. Thanks go to [](http://charliequinn.livejournal.com/profile)[**charliequinn**](http://charliequinn.livejournal.com/) for beta-reading.

The Doctor was unconscious again.

Fitz was getting very, very tired having to perform the heroic ‘catch the swooning Doctor’ act; the guy might look ethereal, but he weighed more than Fitz did, and it was no easy job hoisting him into his bed every time this happened, which was far too often of late. They should talk about it, but that wasn't terribly likely to happen; the Doctor was so good at denial he might have invented the concept. Fitz tried to distract himself from the worry by wondering if the Doctor did it deliberately, though for what reason only the gods knew. Maybe he had a fainting kink.

He shied away from that thought; not something he wanted to contemplate at the moment, being that he was sitting in the console room of the TARDIS cradling the Doctor's unconscious form across his lap, and the idea of getting those ideas while he had a warm, not-exactly-willing-but-who's-counting Doctor in his grip was – well, a bad one. Fitz liked to think that he had _some_ morals left, after all. One or two. Maybe.

He blinked and realised he'd been staring at the Doctor's collarbone for far too long. It was exposed and vulnerable, his white linen shirt rucked away and open halfway down his chest, and the skin looked delicate and smooth. Fitz traced the flow of it over the line of bone and wondered how it would taste.

"Jesus bloody Christ," he muttered, and knocked his head back against the console. It didn't make him feel better, but it did distract him from thoughts that he regarded as almost blasphemous. The Doctor was – inviolate, he supposed was the word. Untouchable. Not like he was cold or hard or unfeeling, but like – well, like a pot plant, that you watered and nourished and repotted and got your hands dirty looking after, and it took all your care and rewarded you with flowers and foliage and stuff, but in the end it was only looking after itself, wasn't it? And there was nothing wrong with that – everyone needed to look after themselves, Fitz included, and he could understand that the Doctor needed to keep that distance. Hell, if he was a thousand years old and had seen all his close friends die he'd probably do the same thing. The Doctor was a pot plant that you filled with water every week, only there was no dish thingy at the bottom to keep the water from leaking out, so the soil got dampened but it would dry out eventually and you'd need to keep adding more. Constant care, constant watching, and all the while you knew it wouldn't get you anything but a bit of prettiness in the right season.

Okay, that was deeper than he wanted to be, ever. Fitz shifted the Doctor’s head in his lap, lifting him up to use his discarded coat for a pillow. He wanted to stay where he was, but he also wanted to be up and moving before his mind did any more weird stuff. Like noticing just how fine the Doctor’s skin really was, and how you could see the veins underneath if you looked hard enough (and they weren’t _quite_ the same blue colour as a human’s, but close enough so you’d never know the difference if you didn’t ... er, know the difference, and how sad was it that Fitz _had_ noticed?), and really, what lovely hands the Doctor had. Not that Fitz had ever noticed the Doctor’s hands before. It was only because the Doctor was so still and right there beside him. That was all. And if he decided it wouldn’t hurt anyone to get a better look at those hands and that skin, well, why not? This was probably the only chance he’d ever get, because there was no way he’d ever do this while the Doctor was awake. He didn’t even let himself _think_ about this most of the time. Fitz Kreiner was a ladies’ man, and don’t you forget it, yessir. Give him a short skirt and he’s a happy man. Except for the Doctor, he’d never even looked at a man in that way, and he supposed the Doctor was an exception like that for a lot of people, which somehow made it all right for him to be thinking like this. Having him here like this was ... seductive. And before Fitz knew it his hand was under that white linen shirt, carefully measuring the Doctor’s heartsbeat, allowing himself to take in the silky texture of his skin and the hard muscle that rested just beneath, drifting up and barely over to one of those collarbones ( _delectable_ , that was the word for it) and around under the equally silky hair to cup that vulnerable nape....

“Fitz, what are you doing?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin, and yanked his hands away as if they were burned. “What?”

The Doctor’s blue eyes gazed up at him, perfectly calm. He hadn’t moved at all except to open his eyes. Fitz wondered wildly if he’d faked the faint.

“I was just checking that you were still, you know, breathing,” he said in a rush. “And that you hadn’t hit your head.” Oh yes, very smooth, Fitz. Well done.

“I see.” The Doctor showed no signs of wanting to get up; on the contrary, he appeared perfectly comfortable, if paler than he should be. “I don’t think I did.”

“You didn’t.” Fitz swallowed. “I caught you.”

“Ah. Thank you, Fitz,” the Doctor said gravely. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

Fitz fell silent. He felt uncomfortable just sitting there with the Doctor in his lap, but he had no idea what to do or say next. Five more seconds and he would’ve been doing what his mother called ‘taking liberties’, but for the life of him he couldn’t feel guilty about it, only disappointed.

“Well. I suppose I should get up,” the Doctor said. Fitz shifted a bit.

“Only if you—“, he began, and cleared his throat. “Well, when you’re ready.”

“You must be getting stiff.” But the Doctor still didn’t move, and neither did Fitz, and this was going to get weird again in a minute if something didn’t happen. And he did _not_ need the Doctor talking about stiffness of any kind right now, please God.

"Nah. I'm flexible," he said without thinking, and then he groaned aloud. "Jesus ..."

"What?"

"Nothing. Nothing," Fitz babbled. "Er, yeah. You look much better, colour's coming back." He began to slide out from under the Doctor's weight, praying he could get out of the room before he did something unbelievably embarrassing, " I'll just, ah, go and put the kettle on."

The Doctor didn't catch himself in time; he slipped heavily onto the floor, banging his head. Fitz scrambled over to him on hands and knees and had his hands in the Doctor's hair before he could stop them.

"Does it hurt?" he asked. The Doctor's eyes were fixed on him.

"Not at all. As bumps on the head go, it barely rates a mention." The mobile mouth quirked. "I'm a bit of an expert on the subject."

"You are," Fitz agreed. But he stayed where he was, feeling the hard bone of the Doctor's skull under his hands, soft hair feathering over his wrists to make his pulse speed up. He realised what a picture they made, the Doctor sprawled full-length on the floor with Fitz leaning close over him, but he was caught by the fragility he held between his palms. So much life and experience and loss all bound together, hidden away and yet so open to the world. No wonder people were drawn to him like flies. No wonder Fitz couldn't dream of being anywhere but here.

"You're staring," the Doctor said. "Do I have something on my face?"

Fitz's eyes automatically moved to the face in question, avoiding the eyes that could see so much. He started to speak, but his gaze had stopped on the Doctor's mouth and his tongue came out to moisten lips that felt dry as dust.

"Oh dear."

"Oh—" Fitz looked up, horror flooding him, "—dear?"

The Doctor was still looking at him, and now the look was – God, it was _knowing_ , and full of refusal; coloured by regret and warmth, but refusal all the same. Fitz looked away. He wanted to disappear, right now.

"Fitz, I—"

"No," he said, and backed away on his knees. "Don't. It doesn't matter."

"But—"

"I said _no_." Fitz was on his feet and heading for the door. "Forget it. It's nothing. I'm going for a walk."

He plunged into the depths of the TARDIS, ignoring the Doctor's calls.

END


End file.
